


Those Forged In Fire

by Writegirl



Category: Camelot (TV)
Genre: Child Abuse, Implied Sexual Content, Pre-Canon, Starvation
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-08-19
Updated: 2012-08-19
Packaged: 2017-11-12 10:55:00
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,865
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/490107
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Writegirl/pseuds/Writegirl
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>“Oh, there is fire in you, child. Fire and pain.” Her grip tightened, grinding flesh against bone. “There are ways to escape from the chains that bind us,” the abbess said slowly. “Old ways, powerful ways." </i>
</p>
            </blockquote>





	Those Forged In Fire

“Has she been found?” 

“No, my Lady.” 

Igraine dismissed the servant and continued through the castle, strained smiles meeting Uther’s guests. When Tessa, Morgan’s body servant, complained that her mistress hadn’t returned to her chamber the night before the queen did not worry immediately. The girl was known for roaming the halls at all hours, vanishing from sight only to appear later unconcerned with the havoc she caused. But as midday approached and she remained absent a kernel of dread began to form in the queen’s stomach. Morgan could be hurt, lost, or simply taken. The midsummer celebration had called people from far and wide to the keep, their comings and goings monitored only to ensure that weapons were not brought inside the walls. The daughter of the new High King was a prize that would tempt even the most stalwart of allies. 

_Please, Morgan,_ she prayed. _Please appear before I must alert your father._

Of late, Uther had no patience for the girl, resorting to violence to show his displeasure. The last beating had seen her abed for nearly two days. His shows of temper did nothing to curb the girl’s tongue, or her insistence that there was a dark hand involved in her mother’s death. 

“My Lady!” Gildred, one of her ladies in waiting, ran towards her. “We’ve found her.” 

“Slowly,” Igraine admonished hands gentle on the younger woman’s shoulders. There were too many eyes and ears in the keep, and the girl’s flight had drawn attention from the other serving women. Gildred had been her servant at Tintagel, bonded when she was barely twelve years old. She at least could be trusted. “I was hoping you could locate the girl before she sent my dresses to the wash.” Gildred looked confused, but the other women turned and went about their business. If the queen sent a girl tearing through the castle looking for a washer woman it was no affair of theirs. When they were clear of stone walls she asked “Who else knows?” 

“Ita is keeping watch over the store room, my lady,” Gildred said as they walked. “She told me to find you.” 

The knot that had settled in the pit of her stomach loosened. The girl was alive, and unharmed. Ita would have gone to Uther himself had it been otherwise. 

Outside the stone of the castle the wind howled. A storm was gathering, the sky heavy and dark. The storeroom Gldred led her to was at the back of the second bailey. There were few people here, this section almost exclusively used for storage. Ita waited outside the shack, arms crossed. “My Lady,” she said tersely as they approached. 

“Where is she?” 

“Inside,” the older woman bit off before opening the door. 

The floor was strewn with sacks of grain and other. On a pile of them, hidden in the corner, was a familiar head peeking above a worn cloak. Igraine stalked forward, prepared to shake the girl awake and demand answers, when she saw the dress laying crumpled against a cask. 

 

Morgan came awake by small degrees. Someone was talking to her, calling her. She opened one eye slowly, and then slammed it shut again. “God,” she whispered, curling into a ball. 

Her stomach churned; a burning knot that threatened to eat through her center. Her mouth tasted like iron, and her head felt as if it would cleave in two. 

“Up girl!” 

Someone pulled at her, yanking her up, and she emptied her stomach. The hands vanished, and she fell to her knees. Some of the pain went with the foulness, but she could feel it building again. 

“Dear God, what have you done to yourself?” 

She recognized the voice now. Igraine was the one pulling at her. “Leave me be,” she demanded, aware that it came out as a moan. Bleary eyes took in her surroundings. She wasn’t in her chambers; the floor was hard packed earth, not the expensive carpets her mother had brought from the east. Instead of the sweet smell of rushes she could smell manure and old dust. Slender arms gathered her up, forced her to stand. Morgan felt her cloak swirling around her thighs. She looked down, and saw her breasts bare in the dim light. 

“Ita, take care of this mess,” Igraine ordered. “Gildred, I need you to make a bath ready. Quickly now.” Her head spun as she was half carried, half dragged out of wherever they were. A few steps and they were in bright sunlight. The pain in her head spiraled to the point where she feared she’d faint. She stumbled as the ground spun beneath her. 

“I need you to walk, Morgan,” Igraine said as the moved. “We cannot arouse suspicion.” They stumbled, and Igraine swung her around, thin face filling her vision. “You are a princess of the realm, Morgan. Do you want your people to see you stumbling from too much drink?” 

That returned some of the starch to her spine and she pushed away, forced herself to focus. She took a step, and emptied her stomach again. When she was done she stood tall, swaying only slightly. Igraine nodded once, and then held out her arm. “We need to get you cleaned before your father knows what has happened.” 

The walk through the baileys and keep seemed to take an eternity. Finally, they entered her room, where one of the larger copper tubs waited. Gildred and two others were pouring steaming water into it, faces fearful. The smell of sweet herbs filled the room. 

“Finish and go,” Igraine ordered, banishing the serving women. She stopped Gidlred. “Leave the bucket.” When the door closed she began stripping her stepdaughter. It didn’t take much; she wore little else but her cloak and boots. 

“I can do this myself.” 

Igraine ignored her, just as she ignored the rusty stains on the girl’s inner thighs. “Where has your sense gone?” she asked, pushing the girl into the tub. “What do you think your father will do when he discovers this?” 

Morgan's eyes were clouded with confusion. Igraine froze. “You have no idea, do you?” 

She was silent as she was scrubbed until her skin was red and raw, and Igraine’s mind worked furiously. There was no way to salvage this, no way to undo what had been done. So far, only Ita and Gildred knew anything, but that would change. They had passed others on their journey, witnesses to the state of their princess. Rumors were no doubt already circling the halls, and soon would reach Uther. 

Igraine wrapped her stepdaughter in a simple woolen dress and sent her to bed, an order the girl didn’t fight. She took care of the pink stained water herself, getting rid of the evidence. Perhaps, if they were lucky, they could hide this. The midsummer feasts were a time of celebration, with much food and drink to be had. There would be many that morning with fragile stomachs and pounding heads. If not, Morgan wouldn’t be the first girl to go to her wedding bed without her maidenhead. Uther would have to settle for marrying her to a lesser lord, one who could be easily placated with a young wife and a possible claim to the throne. 

With the water disposed of Igraine paused, running trembling hands down her front. Morgan hadn’t moved from her curled position on the bed, hair hiding her face. She took a deep breath and approached. Pray God the girl wasn’t pregnant. 

“Morgan?” She settled onto the bed next to her step-daughter, leaning over the curl of her body. “How are you feeling now?” She wasn’t surprised when the girl failed to answer her. Morgan was a difficult child at the best of times, and this was hardly one of those. 

“Why are you doing this?” Morgan asked when Igraine stroked her hair. 

“I’m your mother.” 

“My mother is dead.” 

There was no challenge in the girl’s voice, no anger. It was a simple statement, one that had no argument. 

Whatever she planned to say in response was lost by the sound of the doors slamming open. 

 

“I want to go home.” 

“So soon? You’ve only just arrived.” 

Morgan’s brows furrowed. “I demand to go home! You have no right to keep me here.” 

Every day for the past two weeks she’d made the same statement. Yelled it to knights and servants, then to the captain of the ship she was carried on to when she refused to take another step. The servants scuttled away, her father’s men ignored her with stony silence. She might have been a rolled carpet for all the care she was given in her transport. “I am your princess,” Morgan hissed. “You will open the gates and provide me with a horse and funds for traveling.” 

The abbess glared. “You make no demands here, child, and your father left strict orders.” The look she gave Morgan was cold. “You are to remain here until he sends for you.” She fingered the scroll Leontes, her father’s squire, handed to her. Morgan wasn’t able to read it, but her father’s seal was clear at the bottom of the parchment. “We are to teach you humility and piety, girl, and we take our lessons very seriously.” 

“I need no lessons.” The girl stormed forward. “I’ve done nothing wrong.” 

“Your father believes differently.” The abbess stood. “Your clothes are too fine for your new place in life.” She sniffed at the velvet cloak trimmed in fox, the embroidered dress in emerald green. “Greta will take you to your cell. You will change and come to the rectory.” 

Greta was a short, dark woman, in the same habit as the abbess, who poked and prodded the younger woman through the stone halls. Finally, she stopped in front of a narrow wooden door, a single cross its only adornment. “This will be your cell,” she said, pulling out a ring of heavy keys. “Clothes and water for washing are already inside.” 

Morgan flinched back when the door opened. A dress of plain wool was laid out for her on a bed narrower than the door, a belt at its side. A single table held a small basin, a chair and lamp the only other decorations. 

Greta pushed her inside. “Do not keep me waiting,” she warned before slamming the door. 

The dining hall was a simple stone room, the only embellishments crosses carved above each tall window into the stone itself. Two long benches ran its length, filled with girls, their heads bent, hands folded in front of them. Morgan was marched to the end of one. 

“Sit.” The sister ordered, pressing her into the seat. 

Morgan waited. When the bells rang the hour a girl at the head of each table stood and began ladling the contents of a large iron pot into bowls, which were passed down the table. She stared into hers, nose wrinkling. A thin soup of vegetables, not even thickened with bread or meat. 

She would not have it. 

 

“She refuses to eat, or take water,” The dark eyed sister informed the abbess. “Short of opening her mouth and pouring it down, there is nothing we can do.” 

Morgan didn’t move as she heard the heavy steps of the abbess approach. The woman stopped behind her, robes brushing the back of her head. “You will eat.” 

The hall was dark and silent, the other girls already gone to their evening prayers and beds. She smiled grimly. “I will not eat until I am home.” 

There was a pause, and then the abbess walked away. “She is to be strapped after every meal if she does not eat,” the woman said to the waiting sister. “And every day after compline that she continues with this foolishness. She is not to leave that table until she has finished every crumb placed in front of her unless it is for her punishments.” 

Hushed yes’ followed the pronouncement. 

nbsp;

“This is foolishness child, plain and simple.” 

Morgan ignored the abbess, palms flat on the table before her. The rectory had emptied after supper, the walls lit by the lamp the abbess brought with her. It took all her energy to remain upright, to stay focused on the wall across from her. For two weeks she’d sat there as the others came and went to their meals, allowed to rise only to use the privy or for her punishments. The sisters glared at her when they passed, spooning less and less into her bowl with each day. “Just eat a spoonful,” Sister Baltha had pleaded that morning. “A spoonful is all I will give you.” True to her word, only a spoonful of porridge was placed in her bowl, and it remained there through the day. 

Hunger she found wasn’t difficult to deal with, not after those first terrible days. The thirst was something else, something she hadn’t counted on. It was only on the third day that she began taking water again, swallowing a cupful with each meal. Thirst choked her and hunger rumbled dull and painful in her stomach, but she refused to give. 

“Has it occurred to you, child, that even if we sent a messenger to your father today, you could die in the time it would take to reach him and return with his response?” The abbess’ voice was the same as always, cold and mocking. 

It hadn’t, not until the moment the sister told her, but Morgan didn’t respond. She would not die. Soon the sisters would be left with no choice; they would have to alert her father. 

“It takes will, girl, to do what you’re doing.” 

There was a change in her voice, warmth, almost admiration, that made Morgan look her way. The abbess was sitting across from her, hands folded placidly on the table. “I expected you to give up after two days, three at most, but not you.” She smiled. “You’d starve yourself to death just to prove you could, wouldn’t you? Just to spite your father for sending you away.” 

Morgan worked her mouth for a moment, fighting to gather enough spit. “I want to go home,” she finally ground out. 

“I know you do,” the abbess sighed. “Believe me or not, I would send you home if it was within my power.” When the girl met her eyes she continued. “But it isn’t in my power, or in yours. Your father’s instructions were very specific. You are not to return home until he sends for you, and until he does here is where you will remain.” 

She breathed in, the sound squeaking in her throat. Tears, something she felt herself beyond, gathered in her eyes. She would not cry in front of this woman, this jailer who followed the dictates of a man who would murder his own wife to replace her with a whore. A man who had loved her, cherished her, until she became a reminder of his own sins. 

Morgan looked down as her vision blurred, a wet burning filling her chest. _You will not cry,_ she chanted in her mind. _You have spilled enough tears for a thousand lifetimes. He will never make you cry again._

“There is another way, you realize.” 

A warm hand settled on hers, the first warmth she’d felt since her father’s knights escorted her through the doors of the abbey. 

“As women, we are often at the mercy of men,” the abbess continued. “First our fathers, then husbands, brothers… no matter our ambitions, no matter our talents, it is they who control our lives.” Her dark eyes glittered. 

“So I should just accept this?” Morgan hissed. “Accept being taken from my home; accept being thrown away like garbage so he can cavort with his whore in my mother’s castle?” She tugged at her hand, but the abbess’s grip tightened, an iron grip she couldn’t escape. 

The woman chuckled, ignoring her struggles. “Oh, there is fire in you, child. Fire and pain.” Her grip tightened, grinding flesh against bone. “There are ways to escape from the chains that bind us,” the abbess said slowly. “Old ways, powerful ways. Ways that frighten those who cannot understand them.” 

Morgan’s struggles slowed as the older woman spoke. “What ways?” 

The abbess removed her hand and settled back. “Ways that can give you a power you cannot imagine, not in your wildest dreams, your most terrifying nightmares. Ways that will allow you to take revenge on those who have harmed you, reviled you. You have will Morgan, and fire, but to follow this path you must have patience.” Her eyes were sparkling pools. “There is much I can teach you, but it will take time.” 

Morgan’s laugh was gritty. “Time is the one thing I have.” 

“Once we begin, you cannot stop.” 

“Stop your prattling, old woman, and tell me what I must do.” 

The abbess nodded. “Eat,” she said. “You must keep up your strength. You will need it for what is ahead.” She gestured, and a bowl of thick gruel was placed in front of her with a trencher of bread. “In the morning, we will begin.”


End file.
